


You're My Best Friend

by chanthecomedian



Category: Friends (TV)
Genre: 1990s, F/F, F/M, M/M, ross isn't gonna be an asshole, sort of angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-10-29 06:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17802758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanthecomedian/pseuds/chanthecomedian
Summary: This is what happens when you're in love with your best friend.Set after The One With Frank Jr. (Season 3 Episode 5)(The title of this work is based off of "You're My Best Friend" by Queen. There'll also be lots of moments in the work where they're listening to Queen, so whenever I mention a song you should put it on!)





	1. The One Where Chandler's Lightbulb Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> hah so i really don't know what i'm doing, and i know it's not unique at all, but i had the idea for this on my mind for a while so yeah :)  
> i'll try to update as frequently as i can but no promises bc ap courses make me wanna ;-;  
> IN PRE-EDITING STAGES!

[Chandler's POV]

I’m pretty sure the entire world is out to get me.

Just this morning, a light in the corner of my bedroom went out. One that I replaced just last week, which took 3 fucking hours to do because the darn thing wouldn’t fit into its designated hole. Turns out I bought the wrong bulb anyways, and had to go to the hardware store, just to wait in line for another 45 minutes because there was a 50% sale on everything “summery” in the store.

Sadly, the lightbulb wasn’t a “summer” lightbulb. It was a regular lightbulb. And it cost 10 whole dollars, because Monica is SO adamant on changing everything over to LED lightbulbs. Apparently, they’re supposed to last longer than a normal lightbulb. But, I mean, this one must have been incorrectly labelled, because it lasted a mere 7 days. And it was only on for a maximum of 3 hours a day. That’s 21 hours of LED. According to this nifty new thing called Internet Explorer, an LED lightbulb is supposed to last for 50 THOUSAND hours.

This lightbulb didn’t last nearly that long.

And now I have to call Joey in to fix it for me because I’m clearly incompetent. Joey, the smug, yet adorable, dude-man who cares about foosball, girls, sandwiches, and more sandwiches. And recently, home repair.

Yesterday, he built a full entertainment unit for our house. It’s too wide for the wall, because Joey is notoriously GREAT at math. Plus, he ended up chopping my door in half and nearly killing me in the process. I still appreciate the gesture, though; he’s a sweet dude.

Joey also changed Monica’s floor tiles in her bathroom. I didn’t really see how that had anything to do with anything, but after a while, he managed to make it look even more tacky than it looked before. I guess I admire that.

Though it may seem like my roommate makes everything worse than it was before, I can assure you that’s not true in the slightest. Though his incompetencies in home repair, and many other subjects (and by many, I mean MANY), he’s not all bad. I mean, he’s a much better roommate than Ross. Once you get past his (quite irritating) quirks, you’ll see that all of his actions are out of love. He only wants people to appreciate his efforts, which I’ve learned to. As well, he’s not too bad to look at. Especially when wearing those cute little tight-fitting worker’s pants.

Hey. Don’t judge. It’s 1996.

But seriously, once you get past his macho exterior, he’s a lovable dork. And the lovable dork just cracked open the front door.

Which brings my attention back to what I was trying to pay attention to: the fucking light in my fucking room that fucking burnt out after a tiny fraction of its lifespan.

“Joe,” I call out, still staring up at the haunting black hole in my ceiling. “Come take a look at this.”

“Be right there,” he answers, muffled through bites of his sandwich. From the smell, I’m guessing meatball.

I hear a soft clunk from the kitchen and quick footsteps in my direction. Suddenly, Joey’s standing beside me, hand on shoulder, looking at what I’m looking at. “Your light is out AGAIN?”

I nod and look him dead in the eye. “Don’t even get me started. But, I just have to say, Monica was dead wrong about that LED thing.”

“Wow, that’s only, like…” His gaze drifts off somewhere far and his mouth turns down slightly at the edges. I fight the urge to laugh. “That’s, like, a really small amount of the lightbulb’s lifespan. And it wasn’t in a bargain bin or anything when you bought it?” I shake my head. “It was ten full dollars.”

He puts his hands on his hips and puffs his chest out like a non-flying Superman. “Well, my man, you need to get a refund on this POS lightbulb. You deserve the ten dollars. And we definitely need it.”

“You mean you need it.” Joey grins and wags his finger at me. “Yes, I do. For new headshots.”

“And you’re not going to pay me back for those last ones? They cost, like, $500.”

The grin falls from Joey’s face. “We’ll worry about that later.”

“Hey, not my fault you drew a fancy mustache on over half of your remaining headshots,” I tease.

He stabs back. “Well, it’s your fault that you drew a monocle on the other half, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was funny. Didn’t you think it was funny?” I crouch slightly and stare up at him, wide eyes, eyebrows tilted up.

Joey pauses, and grins again. “Yeah, dude. I thought it was funny.” The smile returns to my face, and I punch him lightly on the shoulder.

“We’ve should still get the refund on that thing, shouldn’t we?” I nod my head. “Yeah. I’ll go tomorrow. But they’ll probably just tell me I broke it by installing it wrong.”

“Yeah… Foosball?” He points to the table, suggesting a game to warm my spirits.

“Foosball it is.”

But as we play through our game of foosball, something keeps tugging at me. It keeps me unfocused, ultimately too distracted to even try to win at foosball. (Although, justifiably, I couldn’t win against anyone in the group on my best day.)  
The thought stumbles around my conscious, pushing through every other thought in its path like it always does. This thought has been in my brain for so long, and yet it still remains the centre of attention whenever I stop paying attention to anything. Which is most of the time, really.

The thought shouldn’t bother me that much. It’s just a little crush. It really doesn’t mean anything in the grand scheme of anything. And, even if it did matter, it would never happen. I mean, there’s no possibility whatsoever that it would happen. Right?

Right?

Or am I just reassuring myself that nothing would ever happen to save me from wondering, what if?

My roommate is probably the dumbest dude I’ve met, but he’s got some mad street smarts. He can easily spot when someone’s hiding something. I’m almost positive that he’s psychic. Then again, Phoebe convinced me she was psychic for a while.

But, even though this thought has been so prominent for such a long time, he’s failed to notice it. Or maybe he has noticed it. It being my tiny, itty bitty, teeny weeny crush on the person that lives in his room.

That person being him.

He probably hasn’t noticed it, right? That means I’m exceptional at keeping secrets when I really, desperately want to. Or maybe he has noticed it, and decided he doesn’t feel the same way, letting me get away with it easily by simply not saying anything about it.

Or maybe, just maybe, he’s also wondering about what I’m wondering about. Maybe he has the same feelings that I have. Maybe he’s looking for the tiniest smidge of a possibility that I feel the same way he feels too. Maybe, just maybe, he’s wondering about the “what if” too.


	2. The One With the Cedar Plank Salmon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica cooks dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took me a while to update guys! also sorry this chapter is so sloppy and short, i'm just in a weird headspace and have been in a weird headspace lately. but i'm going to try to write more frequently! thanks for putting up with me haha

[Monica's POV]

“I’ll see you later, babe.” Rachel kisses Ross at the door. Passionately. So cheesy, it’s eye-roll worthy.

Of course, I’m not about to roll my eyes at Rachel and Ross. My brother and my best friend are happy together, and that’s a good thing. I guess.

Ross closes the door, not without sneaking an extra peck on Rachel’s cheek. Rachel turns to me, hearts in her eyes. “Oh, Mon, I love him. I love him I love him I love him.”

I chuckle awkwardly. “This is my brother we’re talking about. I don’t think I need to hear about you having sex with him.”

She runs her hands through her hair, distressed. “Yeah, that’s like, incest or something.”

I nod my head slightly, and we stand there in silence for a brief moment. You could cut the tension in the air with a chef’s knife. “Well, um, I made something while you were out. What’s a cooking-starved chef to do?”

Rachel smiles slightly, her baby blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “I smelled it as soon as I walked in. I’m sure it’s amazing.”

“Well, it is my specialty.” I tense my shoulders and grab my elbow. “Cedar plank salmon with a lemon ginger marinade, roasted vegetables on the side.” My mouth waters just thinking of it.

“Mm! I HAVE to eat some. Ross only took me out to Central Perk for dinner. I mean, they have great pastries and everything, but their sandwiches taste like monkey butt."

“Oh! Uh, well…” I rush over to the kitchen and pull out a chair for Rachel. “Sit.”

She sits down, rubbing her hands together and licking her lips. I smell her hair. It smells like honey.

I grab a fork and a knife from the drawer and set it in front of her, along with a piece of salmon and some veggies. “Here. Eat up.”

She takes a bite, and her eyes close, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Mm! It’sch scho good!” she exclaims, muffled through bites of the salmon. She bends over the plate and finishes the salmon and the veggies at a supersonic speed. It’s as if I’d given the salmon to a little Joey.

I sit down across from her and put my elbows up on the table, resting my chin on my fists. “Looks like you like it.”

She gives me a thumbs up and swallows the last bite. “DEFINITELY better than eating dinner at Central Perk.” Rachel puts her elbows on the table and crosses her arms. “You know, I should just hire you to make all my dinners.”

I start to twirl my hair, heart fluttering out of my chest. “I’m not THAT good, am I?”

Rachel reaches her arms across the table and grabs my hands. I look into her eyes, eyebrows arched outwards, vulnerable and sincere. “Yes. Yes, you are that good. And you don’t deserve to be working at a place like the goddamn Moondance Diner. You deserve so, so much better than that.”

“Really?” I avert my eyes, then stare back into Rachel’s.

“Yes, girl!” She kicks my foot under the table, a playful “ow!” escaping my lips. “They obviously don’t appreciate you there. You belong at a place where people can tell that the whole meal was cooked by you.”

“You really think people would like that?”

Rachel grips my hands tighter and pulls herself across the table, just inches from my face. I can feel her warm breath on my cheek. “Hon, I KNOW people will like that.”

She stays there for a brief moment, softening her face. She rarely lets down her guard like this, and at these moments you can see straight through her. Moments like these let you see what Rachel’s really thinking, and I can see that she’s being entirely sincere.

The moment passes. She lets go of my hands, grabbing the utensils and plate. She stands up to put them in the sink, leaving the duty of their washing to tomorrow. She turns to her room and walks over to change, but holds back by the doorjamb to utter three simple words: “You’re quitting tomorrow.”

And those words are enough to make me do such a thing.


	3. The One With The Skintight Red Bathingsuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monica interrupts Baywatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one came quickly because i'd had it written in advance lol  
> sorry these are so short, i just like writing scene by scene

[Joey's POV]

“Yasmine Bleeth could spit on my feet and I’d thank her.”

Chandler and I have a longstanding ritual that has been running since 1993. Every Monday, we microwave popcorn and put a 6-pack of beers in my cooler beside the couch. Well, now, the barcaloungers. We would do this in preparation for the best thing to have ever existed in the history of television.

That thing is Baywatch.

Door locked, blinds closed, cold beers in hand. Nobody could interrupt our precious Baywatch-watching time. Everyone that has undertaken that feat has learned our lesson the hard way. For an hour on the most dreaded day of the week, true paradise is achieved.

Until today.

A loud knock on our door sends me flying out of my seat. Chandler stifles a laugh. I huff and cross my arms. “Hey! You know how I get with sudden noises.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not funny to watch you jump up at any unforeseen door-knocking.”

I angrily point my finger at him. “Uncalled for!” By this point, we’d already missed 30 seconds of precious Yasmine running across the screen in her unsupportive, bright-red, skin tight swimsuit. At times like this, a VCR would’ve come in handy, but our white-trash lifestyle would never support an expensive item like that.

The person at the door becomes impatient and knocks again. “I’m coming!” I yell, stumbling towards the door. I unlock the door and pry it open, leaving the chain still on.

“Wow, you’re hostile tonight,” Monica answers from behind the door, hands behind her back, head held slightly lower than usual.

“You interrupted our Baywatch watching. You have 30 seconds to convince me you’re worth my attention.”

“Oh, I was just wondering if I could watch with you.” She brings out what she was hiding behind her back: A plate of nachos.

“Are those a peace offering? For us?” My mouth begins to water, and the urge to let her watch with us increases by, well, a LOT.

“Yeah, and I have another one for Chandler as wel-”

“THERE’S ONE FOR EACH OF US?!?!” I hold my chest as I process that incredible information. “Of course you can come in.”

I look back at Chandler, his eyes so cartoonishly wide that you could almost see the reflection of a steaming ham. He nods his head in approval, and I unlatch the chain on the door, letting Monica in.

She gives both trays of nachos to Chandler and leaps towards my barcalounger, which I fight her for before she gives up. She slumps down on the couch, defeated, and peers her head over to face the screen. We watch for a few minutes without comment, Chandler and I snacking on our nachos while Monica’s eyes are glued to the screen, studying the actors with high intensity.

After finishing the episode, she’s the first one to talk. “Aw, why didn’t anyone remember Yasmine’s birthday?”

Chandler sighs. “I know, it’s horrible. She’s clearly the hottest one. She stands out! How do you forget someone that stands out?”

I grunt in frustration. “You guys forgot MY birthday last year.”

Monica sighs. “We didn’t FORGET, Joey. We just… didn’t have enough time to plan anything. There’s a lot that goes on in your mid-20s.”

I glance at Monica, scrunching up my forehead. “So I guess I’m just that unimportant to the group.” I look back at the TV, now playing the nightly news. “You know, I don’t really deserve your time. I understand. You have more important things to do than appreciate your friends.”

“Actually… I did something for your birthday,” Chandler mumbles.

I turn towards him, gripping the armrests of the leather barcalounger. “No you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“So what did you do for my birthday?”

He sighs heavily. “Well, remember I took you out to lunch?”

“That’s just a normal thing. We always go out to Central Perk during lunch as a group.”

“N...No. We didn’t go to Central Perk. We went to Dexter’s.”

I scrunch my nose. “Dexter’s? Like that weird Italian place that doesn’t really serve Italian?”

“Yes, we went to that Dexter’s. And we took those meatballs, to go, remember?” He wrings his hands and shakes them out as if they were a wet towel.

I loosen my grip on the armrest and spin around to face Chandler, crouching on the seat of the chair. “I think I remember now. We went home and you’d bought that long, soft baguette. And I cut it open, and we made the best meatball subs to ever exist.”

“Yeah. That.” Chandler glances over at me, softening his eyes, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. “I know it wasn’t a lot, because we’re just broke, 27-year-old roommates–”

“No, we’re broke, 27-year-old best friends. And the fact that I didn’t remember that just shows me that I haven’t been holding up my end lately. I’m sorry, man, and I’ll promise to do better.” I reach over to Chandler and grab his arm. “I really promise.”

He opens his mouth into a full smile, not the fake smile he does when he’s around people that he hates, but the real one that only happens under the rarest of occasions. Like when I beat him at foosball; even though I win, it feels like he’s the real winner, just because of his smile.

“I just want to tell you that means a lot to me, dude.” I let go of his arm and hang my arms over the armrests of the chair.

“Um, hello? I’m here.” This whole time, Monica’s been sitting on the couch, arms and legs crossed, a giant frown on her face. “You guys can pay attention to this chica once in a while, can’t you?”

“Well, this is what you should expect after every Baywatch episode. We always talk. Monica, we’re human beings. You can’t just watch Baywatch and then NOT talk about it.”

“This sounded a lot more personal than just a Baywatch talk. And I don’t really feel involved in it.”

Chandler rolls his eyes and lets out a gentle sigh. “You obviously don’t understand how long it takes to develop a tradition.”

“Well, when you’re ready to talk to ME, you can call me over.”

She gets up and storms her way out of the room, but I run over to the door to stop her. “Hey! We can talk about you.”

She pouts, before letting out a long sigh. “Okay. I came over here for a reason, anyways. And, well, it’s kind of a sitting down matter.”

I walk back to my barcalounger and slump into it, watching Monica intently as she walks in front of the TV. She pulls at the hems of her sleeves and bites her bottom lip.

“Are you okay, Mon?” Chandler asks, sitting at the edge of his seat.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…” She takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling. “Well, I’ve been waiting to tell you guys this for a little while now, and I’ve already told Phoebe, and she’s okay with it, I think–”

“It’s fine. Just tell us.” She looks back at us, arms folded over her chest, and lets out a forced laugh.

“Um. Okay?” She lets out another uncomfortable sound, tensing up her arms and pulling at the sleeves at her elbows. “I-I haven’t even told Ross yet, though. Or my parents. And, I don’t know, I need to tell somebody. And you guys are right across the hall, and you seem like you’d be okay with it–”

“Monica! You can tell us.”

“Okay, well, see… I’m in love with my roommate. And, uh, she doesn’t know, and it’s kind of tearing me to pieces.”

I sit there, staring blankly, processing that information. Well, there’s not much to process. She’s still just the pretty girl across the hall that loves to clean and cook and care about her friends. The only thing that’s changed is that she likes the other pretty girl across the hall.

I get out of my seat and give her one of my signature Joey hugs. “Mon, I love you. And that’s all you need to know. I don’t care who you like. I only care that you’re happy.”

Monica rests her head on my shoulder, her tears soaking my sleeve. “Thank god. I’m not gonna lose you.”

“Of course you’re not gonna lose us, Mon.” Chandler’s arms wrap around mine, sandwiching Monica between us. She smiles, looking into my eyes and resting her head again on the wet spot on my shoulder.

“So, does that mean I can come to you with all my girl problems?”

Chandler grins slightly, shaking his head. “You know you can always count on us. We’re here for you.”

And for a second, his smile falls, giving way to a small expression of fear. A distant stare, scrunched eyebrows, mouth in a fine line. As if he was wondering if the same applied to him. Chandler looks into my eyes before quickly darting them away, forcing the small smile back onto his face.

After Monica left, and after Chandler and I went to bed, I was up all night. Wondering about what Chandler was thinking of. Did he also have something he was hiding? Or do I just read way too much into every single situation?

By the end of the night, I'd decided it was the latter.


	4. The One With Chandler's 'Sketch'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chandler gets caught doing something he shouldn't be doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao i wrote this in like 45 mins at 10pm on a friday, hopefully it makes a lot of sense  
> i really like this chapter tho so :)

Business meetings suck. I mean, they REALLY suck.

Sitting there for hours in a room full of people. People wearing suits with pens sticking out of their left breast pocket. As if there’s something so urgent in a business meeting that they wouldn’t have 2 seconds to reach into their briefcase to get a pen. No, they have to reach over to their left breast pocket to use the one hanging out of there.

There’s not really much worth writing down in a business meeting, except if you have a shitty memory. And even those who have shitty memories can get by with dozing off, because business meetings are the most useless things to ever happen to the data management industry.

Not that there’s anything useful about data management. But we’ll save that for another business meeting drift-off.

Oh, and it’s not like any of us want to be here. Most of us want to be back at our desks, clacking away at our keyboards like there’s nothing better to do. Obviously, there are better things for us to do than sit at our desks. But at least we’re left alone.

It would be really helpful if Martha would leave me alone during today’s meeting. I’m doodling something random on my notepad, and she has the audacity to look over at what I’m drawing. And even then she refused to back down.

“Whatcha doodling?” she prods, the annoying nasal tones in her voice softened by her whisper. I glance at her before looking back down at my notepad.

She keeps watching as I sketch out sharp lines and smooth curves, shading and scribbling over some areas and leaving others completely blank. After a minute, even she could tell what I was trying to draw.

“Is that you?” Well, at least she could guess.

I shake my head and turn back to the drawing, almost entirely tuning out Doug (my boss)’s ramblings about the weekly trends of net usage statistics. As if I wasn’t already bored out of my mind, he begins to explain what he was talking about just 2 seconds ago to the new employees. What a drag.

I scribble again. Now that I have the basic foundation for the head, only the facial features and the hair need to be drawn. I sketch out the man’s strong, thick, arched eyebrows. Underneath those, two eyes are laid out. Large, softened almond-shaped eyes. The kind of eyes that can turn your heart from stone to Jell-O with just one glance. Between the eyes, a defined Grecian nose is sketched. Just underneath it is the mouth, small and upturned at the corners. Finally, the hair, all shaded black, swoops up and over in an almost Pompadour-like style.

“I never knew Chandler Bing could draw!” Martha elbows me in the upper arm, causing my hand to drift a bit and make a mark at the side of the page. She squints through her cat-eyed glasses. “Doesn’t that almost look like Brian from Accounting?”

My heart flutters a bit. “N-no. It’s not him. It’s someone else.” I drop my pen on the notepad, putting my elbow on the table and resting my chin on my fist. “Nobody that you would know.”

“Is that because he’s from your dreams?”

“Sure, Martha.”

My boss frowns and opens his mouth to speak. “Chandler Bing.” I tense up as the entire room turns to face me. “Yes?”

I put both of my hands in my lap and grasp them together, sweat beginning to form between the creases on my palms.

“I’d like to see you outside.” Shit.

I follow him out of the room, leaving all of my work open on the table, including the notebook, for everyone to see.

“Hey, what’s up with you lately?” Doug softens his voice. “Are you okay?”

See, in front of groups of people, Mr. Boss Man seems super strict. But once you get some one-on-one time with him, he’s easy-breezy.

“Sure, yeah. I’m just a bit distracted today. Because… Martha. You know Martha.” I let out a strained chuckle.

“Yes, yes, I know Martha.” He guffaws. “She’s a real See-You-Next-Tuesday type of gal, ain’t she?”

“Yeah, totally.” I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

“Okay, but Martha aside, it looks like there was something bothering you today.”

I scratch the back of my head. “Uhhhhh… The WENUS. Yeah, the WENUS is really stressing me out.”

“Really? Because we were talking about the WENUS today and you were busy scribbling away.” He rubs his chin. “What were you busy drawing, by the way? I mean, I know it’s none of my business. But you were pretty intensely focused on that.”

I force a laugh from my lips. “It’s nothing. It’s really, really nothing.”

Doug pauses for a second, staring directly into my eyes to find out my hidden secrets or whatever. Seems like they’re doing too much of that these days.

“I want to see the drawing.”

“Sir, it’s not high school anymore. And this isn’t a note the class has passed from the back to the front asking if Jenny likes Mike.” I giggle slightly. “To which he answers ‘never in a million years’.”

“Show me the drawing.”

“Okay, fine.” I cross my arms. “I’ll show you the drawing.”

I guess I was kind of wrong when I said Doug was easy-breezy.

* * *

When I get home, Joey’s sitting on the couch eating a bowl of microwave popcorn.

“Yo.” I slam my briefcase down on the counter and throw my keys on top of it.

Joe turns back to me and frowns. “Looks like someone’s had a rough day.”

“Whatever. Not really.” I kick off my shoes, more softly than I normally would as to not lead Joey on. “My boss was just being a dick.”

“Doug? The butt-slap dude? Seems like a real weirdo.”

I close my eyes and turn my head up, sighing through my nose. “He really is.” Facing Joey again, I start to complain for real. “You know what he made me do today? Jesus Christ, he’s like a high school teacher. ‘Oh, Chandler, would you like showing the class what’s on that note you’re laughing at?’ No, I’d rather not, Mr. Richards, but I guess you’re forcing me to, so I’ll just show the class a picture of Bugs Bunny and Jessica Rabbit fucking, doggy-style.”

Joey guffaws. “You really drew that? Let me see.”

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t draw a lewd picture during a business meeting.” I start to reach into my briefcase. “Want to see what I actually drew?”

Joey nods, so I fumble around my briefcase for a minute until I reach my notepad. I flip it to the right page and walk over to the barcalounger Joey’s sitting on. I throw the sketchpad into his lap. “Here.”

He picks up the sketchpad and analyzes the picture intensely, his brow furrowing slightly. These little off-guard, vulnerable moments are when you’ll fall for him the hardest. So you’ll have to be careful.

Joey looks up at me, a tiny smile in his eyes. “Is it me?”

I glance away and nod slightly.

He looks back and the page and looks back at me, a much larger smile covering his face. “It’s really, really good.”

“Thanks, I guess–”

“Can I keep it?”

The four words I was dreading the most. Him keeping it would be a stark reminder to me of how close he is to the truth. And yet how so far he is at the same time. But I can’t say no.

“Yes, you can keep it.” And then I add on a tiny statement to make him overthink to godly extents.

“I made it for you.”


	5. The One Where Joey Overthinks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joey’s bedtime routine is interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol i’ve been so busy lately sorry y’all.

Chandler’s not one to keep shit to himself. He wears his heart on his sleeve more often than not.

Chandler thinks that he’s extremely secretive, though. He takes the key from the door to his heart, crumbles it up and buries it underneath 6 feet of dirt. Little does he know, though, that the dirt is transparent, the key is neon-green, glow-in-the-dark and it can be easily reassembled.

Chandler acts like he has a tough exterior. He puts up a metal barrier between him and the rest of the world, cocooning himself away. But it wasn’t a good idea to use a metal barrier, you know. Because heat can pass through metal. You can still tell what he’s really feeling, even if he thinks you can’t.

Chandler tells me I’m a very perceptive person. What I lack in school skills, I make up for in people-decoding skills. He tells me I can unravel someone’s thoughts with the snap of a finger. That’s not the case. He’s just very untangled.

Lately, he’s been kind of unpredictable. He’s gotten smarter with his emotions. I can barely tell what he’s thinking, which really worries me. That’s why I asked him to keep the drawing. I mean, I still wanted to keep it, but I’m trying to figure out what the fuck is up with him.

I knew almost instantly how he would react. His face would get all hot, and he would divert his eyes slightly. He wouldn't want me to keep his art. But he cares too much about me to let me down. So he would’ve let me keep it.

The part I’m confused about, though, is why he said he made it for me. It doesn’t LOOK like he made it for me. Even I know that if you draw a portrait for someone, you make it refined. You take every single one of their favourite aspects about them, and you try to perfect them even more on paper or canvas. But this drawing is different.

It’s not refined whatsoever. It’s an unreferenced sketch. Yet, it looks exactly like me. Not a polished version of how I think I should look. He kept in every single blemish, every birthmark and freckle. The small scar I got on top of my eyebrow for running into a table when I was a kid. I didn’t even think he realized I had that.

I open my dresser drawer to take out our nearly-empty roll of scotch tape. Fortunately, there’s enough of it left to put up one piece of paper. I rip off 3 small pieces: one for the top right corner, one for the top left corner, and one for the bottom edge. I stick it up on my door and smooth down the edges. I toss the roll in the trash, making a mental note to buy more scotch tape tomorrow, which I’ll probably forget. I sit on the corner of my bed, crossing my arms and looking up at the sketch.

The sketch Joey stares back at me, an opposite reflection of what I look like right now. In the sketch, I’m smiling big, mouth open wide. It looks like I’m laughing. My eyes are crinkled at the edges, nearly shut. This Joey has no care in the world, and he’s not afraid to show it. Meanwhile, the Joey sitting on the bed has his eyebrows furrowed, a distant look in his eyes. His mouth is closed, the edges of his mouth turned slightly downwards.

I guess it’s because the sketched-out Joey has no worries. He’s a genuine dude that has an almost drunken personality, telling everyone everything about anything. At least, that he knows of. But the real-life Joey worries about his friends. He worries about Chandler, an insecure guy that has something really big that he’s hiding, probably. You know, I also worry about Monica. What’s she gonna do when Rachel ends up marrying Ross? Those feelings don’t really go away.

I worry about too many things, probably. I even worry about the chick and the duck, who is currently quacking away at the chick. God, it’s annoying.

I lean back onto the bed, head hitting the covers heavily. You know, I have spidey senses. I think. At least for Chandler, I do. But what if I was recently thrown off the radar or something? What if I’m overthinking everything way too much? Maybe Chandler’s just super insecure, and that’s it.

No, that can’t be the case. Chandler’s always been insecure. But there’s always little moments, tiny moments where I catch him off guard. Moments when he’s genuinely having fun. Those moments have never been as scarce as they are nowadays. Is it because he’s, like, anxious? Does he have anxiety?

That actually might make sense. He’s constantly wearing a curtain. Not like a physical curtain. But a metaphorical curtain. He doesn’t want even me, his roommate, to know what’s going on behind the scenes. I really want to help him, but I can’t without his cooperation.

So how do I get him to cooperate? I don’t even know. Do I have to pick at him about what he’s really feeling? No, ew. That’s gross.

Why are people so frustrating? And confusing?

Whatever, I’m finished thinking about this.

I take out my Walkman from underneath my bed, and press play on the song I have paused. I put my headphones on, only to find out that “I Can’t Live With You” by Queen is playing. Perfectly suitable.

I lay back onto my pillows and let the music surround me.

> _We're stuck in a bad place_
> 
> _We're trapped in a rat race_
> 
> _We can't escape_
> 
> _Maybe there's been some mistake_
> 
> _We're trying to make a high score_
> 
> _We're walking through a closed door_
> 
> _And nobody's winning_
> 
> _We're just sinning against ourselves_

Dad used to love Queen when I was a kid. Whenever a Queen song came on the radio, he’d turn it way up and belt out the lyrics. He wasn’t the best singer, but at least it was heartfelt.

But when he found out the lead singer of Queen was a queen, suddenly there was no more turn up, and a lot more turn off.

I guess my father’s old love of Queen was transferred to me, because I can’t stop listening to their music. It’s almost an outlet for me. It IS an outlet for me.

I’ve never had to deliberately turn off a Queen song because it hurt too much, though. And I can’t tell why this is the first time. Maybe it has something to do with my roommate. Is he trying to one up me or something? Are we both stuck in a rat race against each other? And why?

And I’m overthinking. I should go to sleep, though I most likely won’t be able to. I turn off my Walkman and shove it under my bed, turn off the lights and lie my head on my pillow.


End file.
